


Getting to Know the Devil

by Vagabond



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Character Death, History Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Timeline Fic, canon character death, child abuse mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagabond/pseuds/Vagabond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl Elias remembers Anthony through snippets of their life together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting to Know the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> I started this eight million years ago and got hung up on how to end it. I have always been fascinated by Elias and Scarface's relationship, and I wanted to explore what their life growing up could have looked like. I'm still not over Anthony's death, and don't think Elias is truly dead. I'm waiting patiently for his triumphant return. In the meantime, enjoy.

_08-17-1977_

_Brooklyn, New York_

Noise defined the City in so many ways. Cars honked, people talked, and the sound waves vibrated off of the concrete. Noise covered the City like a blanket, rocked the inhabitants soothingly into oblivion as they navigated the streets and went about their days. The noises from the outside were dulled by thick walls, but noise inside could be far worse. Today, cries pierced the walls and made their way to Carl Elias’ ears as he listened to yet another child get punished. He sat against the wall, eyes focused on a book, even as his mind wandered and his own bruises ached in sympathy.

The cries died down and he realized the worst of it was over. He glanced up from his book as the door swung open and an older gentleman stepped out of the room and shut the door loudly behind him. They made eye contact and Carl immediately looked away, back to his book, panic rising as he quietly wished he could become one with the wall. He heard footsteps, the heavy sound of steel toes striking old wood, but as he braced for whatever was next his potential assailant stopped in his tracks when his name was called.

Carl waited quietly and held his breath, only looking up once the footsteps had vanished in the other direction. He looked around the room, at the other boys who were purposely minding their own business, and then to the door. At first he second guessed his actions, but with a glance in the direction their ‘caretaker’ had gone, he knew he had at least a bit of time before the man returned.

Standing, he tucked his book under his arm and crept across the room. The other boys watching him did not go unnoticed, but Carl ignored them as he stepped up to the door to the room. He opened it and slipped inside. A boy younger than himself sat huddled in the corner, legs held tightly to his chest. His face was clear of marks, but his shirtless torso told a different story. Littered with cigarette burns and new bruises, he’d received quite a punishment. Carl slid down the wall next to him and pulled the trembling boy into an embrace.

They sat like that for as long as they could, and Carl didn’t bother saying a single thing. He knew what it was like to be new and go through the first punishment. As one of the older children he had taken it upon himself to comfort the younger ones. This particular boy was named Joseph, and he’d done nothing to deserve the punishment he’d received except to make the mistake of expecting human decency.

When his internal sense of timing told him he had to move, he brushed an affectionate kiss to Joseph’s head and whispered softly in Latin.

“Invictus maneo,” the two words drifted into the air and disappeared. So did Carl, as he slipped back out of the room as if he’d never been in it at all.

 

_02-25-1978_

_Brooklyn, New York_

“What brought you here?” Carl asked, even though he did not expect an answer. The boy across from him, with dark eyes and dark hair, hadn’t spoken a word since he’d been brought into the group home. Of course Carl had taken it upon himself to deal with it.

The other boys around them ate dinner quietly, sat around a long bench table. Carl and the other boy perched on the far end, their plates bearing untouched meatloaf and dry mashed potatoes.

“You have to talk eventually, you know,” Carl insisted, “better to talk to me than anyone else.”

“If you want someone to talk, you have to ask the right questions,” the boy finally answered, and the sound of his voice nearly knocked Carl off his seat.

“Oh?” He’d gotten somewhere. His pestering worked. Of course he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “What would that be?”

Silence, again, and a long stare from behind strangely beautiful lashes.

“What’s your name?” Carl knew it already, it had been announced to all the boys, but he thought it was a good a question as any to start with.

It worked. He saw it in the boy’s eyes.

“Anthony,” he replied, “Anthony Marconi. You?”

“Carl Elias,” Carl answered and held out his hand, “a pleasure to meet you, Anthony.”

Anthony’s hand warmed his own as it was grasped and shaken firmly. He liked him already.

 

_06-01-1978_

_Brooklyn, New York_

A hot summer settled over the City, and the group home never bothered with air conditioning. Instead, the boys just compensated by dousing their shirts in water before bed and sleeping with nothing covering them. The air in the room hung low and humid and the sound of uncomfortable rustling filled the room. Worst of all, Carl had no idea where they’d taken Anthony after a confrontation earlier in the day. The bunk above him didn’t creak like all the others around him because its occupant had been taken away.

Even though it could get him in trouble, Carl swung his feet off the bed and sat up. He looked around the room and wrinkled his nose. Standing, he walked over to the window that they’d been told had to stay closed and opened it. The air outside would at least be fresh, even though it wouldn’t be any cooler than inside, and the breeze would bring a short lived reprieve.

Then, barefoot, he made his way to the door and opened it just a crack to peer out into the hallway. With no sign of anyone, and the odds of the security guard napping at his station highly likely, Carl began his journey. His mind drifted to the events earlier in the day. A boy had approached him, all arrogant smiles and swagger, and insisted that he give up the book he’d been reading. He naturally refused, only to have the book yanked from his hands and the pages ripped from it.

Before he could react, as his anger began to bubble up, Anthony appeared. In a flash he knocked the other boy to the ground with a swift punch and gathered up the book and the ripped pages into his arms. The other boy wailed dramatically as Anthony pushed the book into Carl’s arms desperately, a wild look in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Carl said plainly.

“Get out of here,” Anthony replied and pushed him gently, “go get tape, fix your book, get away.”

For some reason he’d been compelled to do just that, and retreated to his bunk even though he knew Anthony would be left to receive whatever punishment seemed right for the crime. Typically, punishment would last the day but the boys would be returned to their bunks to sleep. It was rare that anyone ever had to stay the night in the room, and generally it did not bode well for whoever was in there.

The room they used for punishment sat within another room on the same floor as the sleeping area where all the bunks were set up. Thankfully the pathway there remained clear as Carl made his way toward it. When he pushed it open, though, he found nothing. No sign of Anthony, or any other child. His heart sank.

He made it to the stairwell and descended a flight of stairs. The next place he would have to check left his stomach in knots. If punishment went poorly, or one of the staff got a little too into it, a child would end up in the home’s version of an infirmary. Really, the infirmary was just another room, sterile as they could make it, stocked with band aids and antibiotic cream and antiseptic. Thankfully, the nurse who oversaw it didn’t subscribe to the same methodology as the majority of the staff and usually worked to repair whatever wounds were presented.

A light shone through the door into the hallway and Carl peaked around the door frame. On a cot lay Anthony, his eye swollen shut, breathing labored. Without thinking, Carl rushed into the room and dropped onto his knees by his friend’s side. He touched Anthony’s forehead tenderly and the other boy barely stirred.

“He is dehydrated,” the nurse said behind him and Carl nearly tore out of his own skin. He’d made a terrible decision and slowly turned to look over his shoulder at her. She regarded him with a guarded, yet tender expression. “They did quite a number on him, but it is the overheating that did it. Temperatures like this, they’re not kind even when someone is in tip top condition.”

“Will he be okay?”

“Yes. See that bag there?” She motioned to a metal pole on wheels beside Anthony’s cot with a bag hanging on it. A tube stretched from the bag down to Anthony, and when Carl followed the trail he realized it ended in his friend’s arm.

“That’s helping him get rehydrated. All of the other wounds are relatively superficial. They’ll heal with time and care. He should be fine come morning.”

Carl nodded and clenched his fist, but turned back to Anthony to find him his non-swollen eye open.

“You came to find me,” Anthony whispered.

“Yes. When you did not return for bed, I was worried.”

“You’re an idiot. You’ll get in trouble, too,” his friend rasped at him and Carl frowned.

“I don’t care,” he replied and took Anthony’s warm hand in-between his own.

“You have a couple more minutes, Carl,” the nurse said gently, “but then I’ll have to escort you back up to your room. We’ll say you came down because you had an upset stomach. I gave you a couple antacid tablets and took you back to bed. Understood?”

“Yes,” he paused, “thank you.”

She smiled kindly when he looked back at her.

 

_04-03-1981_

_Queens, New York_

“One of these days we’re going to get into trouble,” Carl said as he and Anthony walked down the street. The neighborhood around them slept quietly in the early hours of the morning.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your foster mom adores you. She wouldn’t care. It is not as if we’re going out and doing drugs,” Anthony pointed out matter of fact, and Carl’s heart melted a little.

“Would you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Do dru-OW! What the hell?” Carl rubbed his arm and shot Anthony an offended look.

“Of course not,” Anthony replied and rolled his eyes. Even in the dark, he looked handsome. Black hair fell into his face and obscured soulful brown eyes that always regarded Carl with immeasurable affection. He glanced away when he realized he’d been staring and ignored the little knowing smile he saw cross Anthony’s lips.

“Bruce was supposed to meet up with us tonight, wasn’t he?” It always worried him when one of them missed a meeting. Even after being relocated from the group home due to its closure, and finding foster homes of their own, the three of them had been inseparable. Bruce came toward the end of their time at the group home, but had gravitated into their circle nonetheless.

“His parents probably caught him. They’re not as big on him sneaking out at night. Something about him focusing on school or whatever,” Anthony shrugged and then bumped his shoulder against Carl’s. “Time with just the two of us ain’t bad, though, right?”

Carl’s ears burned bright red at how true the words were.

 

_10-12-1992_

_Prospect Park, Brooklyn, New York_

The wooden bench felt cool beneath him as Carl sat and stared down at his hand. A warm afternoon gave way to a chilly evening, but the temperature around him couldn’t even begin to touch the icy sensation inside. He’d trusted his father, which in retrospect had been pretty stupid. Who had he been to believe that a Don would want to truly acknowledge an illegitimate child? Especially one that had purposely had Carl’s mother killed just to be safe.

“Fuck ‘im,” Anthony said firmly beside him. Space hung between them as his friend tried to offer some distant comfort. He sat half a foot away on the bench. “I don’t know why you wanted to show off to him anyway. Who needs him?”

“He’s my father,” Carl replied and hated how broken his sounded, “I thought that might have meant something.”

The space between them disappeared as Anthony slid close. His arm settled around Carl’s shoulders as he pulled him into his side. At first, Carl remained still, stiff even with the offered comfort. Then, he melted into it. He rested his cheek against the soft leather of Anthony’s jacket and leaned into his friend’s side.

“We don’t need fathers,” Anthony insisted, his breath warm against the top of Carl’s head, “we don’t need anyone to help make us into who we’re going to be.”

He knew Anthony was right, but for some reason his heart still ached. Carl startled slightly when Anthony’s hand took hold of his injured one and he glanced up to watch him inspect the bandage. Then, Anthony leaned in and pressed his lips to the gauze in an act that left Carl warm and embarrassed.

“You’ll see,” Anthony murmured as he guided Carl’s injured hand down to rest on his own leg. “I promise.”

 

_05-29-1998_

_Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, New York_

Panic. That’s the only thing that raced through Carl’s entire being. All it had been was a simple operation. They had managed to find a source willing to talk within the Russian ranks and went to meet him. Of course it turned out to be an ambush. How stupid could he have been? Carl’s crew had been acting in the shadows for years at that point, yet no one came out of the woodwork until they began to make progress.

Anthony’s blood stood out starkly against the sheets as a doctor Carl had formed an alliance with worked to stop the bleeding. The bullet went through and through, in the front of his shoulder and out the back, but the bleeding seemed intense. Eventually Carl found himself pushed out of the room by a kind but young nurse who insisted Anthony would be fine in their care.

He waited. His heart pounded. Bruce came and brought him coffee and rested a hand on his shoulder for a time, before he vanished back into the night. He’d heard Anthony yelp an hour ago but nothing past that. It took every fiber of his being not to burst back into the room. When the door finally opened and the doctor stepped out he rose to his feet and ignored the way his body ached from tension.

“He’s fine, sir,” the doctor informed him.

“We stopped the bleeding and stitched him up. He’ll need some short term physical therapy to get his strength back once he’s healed, but he will have no problems moving forward once that’s done. For now, he just needs to rest.”

“Can I go in with him?” Carl asked and refused to be embarrassed by how desperate he sounded.

“Of course, my nurse is tidying up but you’re welcome to go keep your friend company. He’ll be out of it for a few hours, but I’m sure he’d appreciate you being there when he wakes up. Do you need anything else?”

“No. Thank you.” Carl clapped the doctor gratefully on the arm and then passed him to step into the room. The space had previously smelled like blood, but now the air smelled sterile, almost sweet. Air freshener, perhaps. He glanced at the nurse and watched her dump the dirtied sheets into a bag. She glanced back at him, smiled, nodded, and then left.

Carl crossed over to the bed and perched on the edge of it, eyes scanning over Anthony’s lax and sleeping face. They’d covered him with a blanket, and Carl took a peek beneath it at the bandage on his friend’s shoulder. Convinced that Anthony would be okay, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to his friend’s forehead.

“I’m here, Anthony,” he said quietly, “I won’t leave until you’re ready.”

 

_01-01-2000_

_South Hampton, New York_

The early morning sun peeked through the space between the curtains and cast shadows across the room. Carl checked the newspaper to ensure that the world still continued on even in the face of a new millennium, and once satisfied, returned the paper to the table and made his way back into the bedroom. Morning light filled that space, too, and danced across the bedspread and the very naked man sprawled beneath it.

Carl smiled and leaned in the doorway, content to drink in the scene. A pillow obscured Anthony’s face, his hair mussed and sticking up every which way. He’d rolled onto his stomach at some point in the night and though his shoulders and the muscles of his back were visible, everything else disappeared beneath the blanket.

For the occasion, Carl rented a place in South Hampton and the two took a break from structuring an empire. Considering all that they had been through, their plans were on schedule. Carl even planned to begin a new teaching job in the fall, as a way to study their Russian enemies. Together, he, Anthony, and Bruce, would bring order back to New York City. Yet every success deserved a break, and he intended to take full advantage of their time alone together.

Anthony stirred and Carl waited a beat, and then crossed over to the bed. He burrowed back under the blankets, hoping to warm his chilled skin as he hadn’t bothered to put on anything but his underwear upon leaving the bed.

“You’re fuckin’ freezing,” Anthony mumbled dejectedly, even as he rolled onto his side and reached out to pull Carl into his space.

“Then perhaps it is only right that you help to warm me,” Carl answered back and leaned in to press their lips together.

“Mm, why the hell did you put your briefs back on?” Anthony’s hands slid beneath the fabric to cup Carl’s ass and pull their hips together. “You make things so difficult sometimes.”

Carl didn’t dignify the question with an answer. Instead, he silenced Anthony with a heated kiss and grinned into it when Anthony rolled him onto his back and pressed their hips flush together. For a time, they exchanged warm, open mouthed kisses and exploring touches, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. They had all the time in the world.

 

_01/01/2015  
Brooklyn, New York_

Snow fell around him, but Carl didn’t care. He abandoned his security detail to sneak away into the snow covered city, his steps quieted by the blanket of white on the ground. He’d taken a cab under an alias, then down into the subway tunnel. The train took him to a stop and he walked the rest of the way, winding through the streets from memory toward a place he did not really want to return to.

Anthony’s gravestone was plain. It was as he would have wanted it to be, though Carl had wished to give him something far more elaborate. Beneath his feet, snow and grass crunched as he came to a stop in front of his least favorite place in the world. He knelt.

In the quiet of the cemetery there was no war. No Dominic, no Brotherhood, no John Reese to try and save the day. The explosion still echoed in his ears; it still shook him in the middle of the night when he’d shoot awake, clawing at the blankets, crying out for the man that knew him best. He stared at the engraved words on the tombstone and gentle laid the single red rose he’d brought with him on the ground in front of it like an offering.

Carl settled back on his haunches, the cold settling in even through his thick coat, trousers, and gloves. It had been a mild winter up until a week or so before, when the snow had finally rolled in and the cold days became more common than the warm. Winter had truly set in, and he was at the heart of it, physically and emotionally.

He heard the crack of a twig behind him, and the crunching of snow. His eyes slid shut and he waited, wondering who it was that was waiting for him. Had he been followed? Was this to be the final end of Carl and his great plan to take New York City and make it something great? When no gunshot came, he opened his eyes and glanced up at the man standing beside him where he knelt.

“Harold,” he greeted quietly and received a side-long glance and a curt nod in return.

“I apologize, as I fear I have been a bit rude,” he said quietly. “When I hadn’t heard from you I decided to track your phone, and when that led me nowhere I took a few other measures to…ensure your safety.”

“Worried about my safety?”

“There’s an entire organization focused on finding and destroying you, so yes, I have been worried. I’m afraid decent chess partners are few and far between these days, and I would hate to lose my best one.”

“Does John play chess?” Carl asked.

A long silence played out between them, and Carl wondered if Harold was weighing whether or not to reveal such a trivial piece of information. He nearly regretted asking.

“He does, or at least he humors me. He is a decent player, though it is not his favorite game and his willingness to satisfy my need to play only goes so far before he becomes restless. You, however, savor it. I can appreciate that in an opponent,” Harold answered, before he looked down at Carl. “I imagine it is cold on the ground, and I don’t think your friend would wish for you to get frostbite.”

Carl took the hint and clambered back up onto his feet. He wiped the snow off of his trousers and stood tall beside Harold, both of their gazes trained firmly on Anthony’s grave. Anthony probably would not have ever guessed that he’d have more than one visitor at his grave.

“We had plans,” Carl said quietly, deciding to share. Harold remained quiet, but his posture was relaxed. John was no doubt somewhere nearby watching the both of them. “Every New Year’s Day we could, we’d get a house out in the Hamptons and spend a week playing at normalcy. Simpler times.”

“Times before the war,” Harold replied sympathetically, “I know it all too well.”

For Carl, the war had always been waged. From the day his father had his mother killed, his heart and soul yearned for the fight. But he understood the sentiment well.

Harold perked up, and Carl realized he had some sort of device in his ear. It was probably John.

“I should go, there’s new business to attend to.” Harold fidgeted, and Carl found the action to be fascinating. Finally, Harold patted Carl’s arm. “Take care. I would hate for our chess matches to end prematurely.”

Carl nodded, and watched as Harold cast him a final glance before taking his leave across the cemetery. He disappeared into the shadows, and Carl looked back at Anthony’s grave and the bright red rose.

“Happy New Year, Anthony,” he said quietly, then turned and made his own way into the shadows and back to the war.  


End file.
